Paris, Chapter 3: What Terrorism Had to Do with My Trip to Paris
Tragedies have this effect. They clear the air. They drain the color, but they also wipe the dust from our eyes. And for a moment we can see each other clearly. We are tossed, but not sunk.
I.We chose the Generator Hostel for a number of reasons (mentioned previously), but one reason I haven't mentioned until now. The hostel is close to the Batacalan Nightclub. Maybe you remember the name Bataclan from the news a few months ago. If you don't, you certainly remember the attacks in Paris that made it infamous. Bataclan was the scene of the worst of those attacks. It was also half a block from where I'd stayed on my last trip to Paris in 2013. Sitting in my apartment this past November, sick with the idea of those senseless death, I knew I had to visit Bataclan on this trip. As an American, as a friend of the Republic of France, I felt compelled to pay my respects. France is one of our oldest allies. They mourned with us on 9/11. Nous sommes tous américains, they said. We are all Americans. We should honor them in kind. I should do this in person myself. Je suis Paris, I wanted to say back to them. When terrorists target one free person, they target us all.
September, 2001. So one morning at sunrise I pulled up Google maps and began the 5km walk to Bataclan, following the path of the St. Martin Canal. It was an overcast, calm morning. My hands instinctively reached for my pockets but didn't stay there very long. They had to keep track of the blue dot meandering along the canal on its route to Bataclan.
They also had to take photos: rows of victorian apartments line the canal; arching iron bridges, their steps overgrown with lichen, criss-cross its expanse. Picturesque any time of year, somber in the winter morning drizzle. In spring and summer this canal is a gorgeous place to hang out, reminiscent of Lake Austin, with runners, picnickers, and sunbather lining the stony banks. Youth on display. However, Paris shuts down the canal every few years for cleaning. You wouldn't believe the gunk-covered treasures deposited at the bottom of a canal: wine bottles (it's France), shopping carts, a bike with child's seat, a scooter, a 7-foot tall inflatable dinosaur (!), and I can say this without exaggerating, a kitchen sink. Talk about photo opps and fodder for a fiction writer. How did a dinosaur and a scooter wind up side-by-side at the bottom of the canal? In my mind this idea spun strange tales of a New Years Eve gone completely off the rails. Maybe over the rails of a bridge. Pun intended and not rescinded. Ah, yes. The folly of youth on display.
Then there was the graffiti. It was everywhere. I don't mean that someone simply "tagged" a few buildings to earn street cred. On the contrary, fanciful, futuristic scenes covered entire sides of ancient apartment complexes. The graffiti artists left the other side of the buildings untouched, a beautiful juxtaposition of the antique and contemporary, a sign of respect for the past. It's victorian meets pop culture. Architecture meets hip-hop. Traditionalists may despise such things, but I find graffiti refreshing when it's intent is to elevate the creative rather than denigrate the foundation. When thought springs from such a simple thing as a can of spray pain and the mind of an artist in search of a bigger canvas than he could otherwise afford. I explored this use of graffiti in The Rathmore Chaos, my second book. If you've read it, you remember the wings of Icarus painted all over the city of Rathmore, a symbol of rebellion and the hope of freedom in a city controlled by a coercive dictator, the Lord Ascendant. Free societies celebrate -- or at least tolerate -- creative anarchy. So do I. These thoughts occupied my mind on my walk beside the colorful, graffiti-strewn buildings along the mud-beautiful canal. These acts filled my moments: I searched for graffiti, wandered into community gardens, and looked for uneven sections of cobblestones worth walking on. Then one particular building caught my eye. The first two stories were a uniform slab of concrete--not a single window or door. It was the perfect canvas for a street Picasso, one that had probably seen dozens of murals. For now, someone had painted this entire canvas matte black, and on the inky surface cast three bold words in Latin.
Fluctuat mec mergitur. Tossed, but not sunk. My mind returned to my destination. Yes, that is it. In the face of terrorism, how do free people feel? Just this way. Tossed, but not sunk. The graffiti artist, the master of anarchy and guerrilla art, in the midst of heartache turned to his city's motto of all places. Who knows what mural is below those three words? Maybe it was his mural or a friend's. It doesn't matter now. What matters is that the people of his city, of his neighborhood, felt unified in a dire moment. Tossed, maybe, but tossed together. And not sunk. Never sunk.
Tragedies have this effect. They clear the air. They drain the color, but they also wipe the dust from our eyes. And for a moment we can see each other clearly -- white letters on a black background. In that clarified moment we see each other's needs. We need peace amidst turmoil. Proximity in a disconnected world. Confession instead of a clever status update. Integrity instead of a winning argument. Love and unity when hatred might seem justified. We both know it and won't ignore it any longer. We can't. The water is gone, exposing what lies at the bottom of the canal. Now we can see what needs to be removed, repaired, improved, if we are brave enough and do not cover it up again. Freedom and grace allow for that process, but only if we are humble enough to accept it.
Fluctuat nec mergitur.That's what these letters mean. I was close to Bataclan. (Part II. next week...)
I.We chose the Generator Hostel for a number of reasons (mentioned previously), but one reason I haven't mentioned until now. The hostel is close to the Batacalan Nightclub. Maybe you remember the name Bataclan from the news a few months ago. If you don't, you certainly remember the attacks in Paris that made it infamous. Bataclan was the scene of the worst of those attacks. It was also half a block from where I'd stayed on my last trip to Paris in 2013. Sitting in my apartment this past November, sick with the idea of those senseless death, I knew I had to visit Bataclan on this trip. As an American, as a friend of the Republic of France, I felt compelled to pay my respects. France is one of our oldest allies. They mourned with us on 9/11. Nous sommes tous américains, they said. We are all Americans. We should honor them in kind. I should do this in person myself. Je suis Paris, I wanted to say back to them. When terrorists target one free person, they target us all.
September, 2001. So one morning at sunrise I pulled up Google maps and began the 5km walk to Bataclan, following the path of the St. Martin Canal. It was an overcast, calm morning. My hands instinctively reached for my pockets but didn't stay there very long. They had to keep track of the blue dot meandering along the canal on its route to Bataclan.
They also had to take photos: rows of victorian apartments line the canal; arching iron bridges, their steps overgrown with lichen, criss-cross its expanse. Picturesque any time of year, somber in the winter morning drizzle. In spring and summer this canal is a gorgeous place to hang out, reminiscent of Lake Austin, with runners, picnickers, and sunbather lining the stony banks. Youth on display. However, Paris shuts down the canal every few years for cleaning. You wouldn't believe the gunk-covered treasures deposited at the bottom of a canal: wine bottles (it's France), shopping carts, a bike with child's seat, a scooter, a 7-foot tall inflatable dinosaur (!), and I can say this without exaggerating, a kitchen sink. Talk about photo opps and fodder for a fiction writer. How did a dinosaur and a scooter wind up side-by-side at the bottom of the canal? In my mind this idea spun strange tales of a New Years Eve gone completely off the rails. Maybe over the rails of a bridge. Pun intended and not rescinded. Ah, yes. The folly of youth on display.
Then there was the graffiti. It was everywhere. I don't mean that someone simply "tagged" a few buildings to earn street cred. On the contrary, fanciful, futuristic scenes covered entire sides of ancient apartment complexes. The graffiti artists left the other side of the buildings untouched, a beautiful juxtaposition of the antique and contemporary, a sign of respect for the past. It's victorian meets pop culture. Architecture meets hip-hop. Traditionalists may despise such things, but I find graffiti refreshing when it's intent is to elevate the creative rather than denigrate the foundation. When thought springs from such a simple thing as a can of spray pain and the mind of an artist in search of a bigger canvas than he could otherwise afford. I explored this use of graffiti in The Rathmore Chaos, my second book. If you've read it, you remember the wings of Icarus painted all over the city of Rathmore, a symbol of rebellion and the hope of freedom in a city controlled by a coercive dictator, the Lord Ascendant. Free societies celebrate -- or at least tolerate -- creative anarchy. So do I. These thoughts occupied my mind on my walk beside the colorful, graffiti-strewn buildings along the mud-beautiful canal. These acts filled my moments: I searched for graffiti, wandered into community gardens, and looked for uneven sections of cobblestones worth walking on. Then one particular building caught my eye. The first two stories were a uniform slab of concrete--not a single window or door. It was the perfect canvas for a street Picasso, one that had probably seen dozens of murals. For now, someone had painted this entire canvas matte black, and on the inky surface cast three bold words in Latin.
Fluctuat mec mergitur. Tossed, but not sunk. My mind returned to my destination. Yes, that is it. In the face of terrorism, how do free people feel? Just this way. Tossed, but not sunk. The graffiti artist, the master of anarchy and guerrilla art, in the midst of heartache turned to his city's motto of all places. Who knows what mural is below those three words? Maybe it was his mural or a friend's. It doesn't matter now. What matters is that the people of his city, of his neighborhood, felt unified in a dire moment. Tossed, maybe, but tossed together. And not sunk. Never sunk.
Tragedies have this effect. They clear the air. They drain the color, but they also wipe the dust from our eyes. And for a moment we can see each other clearly -- white letters on a black background. In that clarified moment we see each other's needs. We need peace amidst turmoil. Proximity in a disconnected world. Confession instead of a clever status update. Integrity instead of a winning argument. Love and unity when hatred might seem justified. We both know it and won't ignore it any longer. We can't. The water is gone, exposing what lies at the bottom of the canal. Now we can see what needs to be removed, repaired, improved, if we are brave enough and do not cover it up again. Freedom and grace allow for that process, but only if we are humble enough to accept it.
Fluctuat nec mergitur.That's what these letters mean. I was close to Bataclan. (Part II. next week...)
No comments have been added yet.
